


The Island in the River

by Serrit



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 08:04:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18634135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serrit/pseuds/Serrit
Summary: Forced to escape into a strange country, a young Witcher from the Manticore School has no choice but to rely on a mysterious man from the School of the Viper. After all, Witchers on the Path should help each other. But are his intentions what they seem?





	The Island in the River

**Author's Note:**

> First time I've had to write an AO3 summary in years and let me tell you, I still suck at them. But hell yeah, been trying to get back into writing so this will be my first serious attempt in years, hope you guys like it!
> 
> Just a few things:
> 
> "Explicit" tag refers to the work as a whole, and the amount of explicit will vary from chapter to chapter. 
> 
> Also, "After all, Witchers on the Path should help each other." was a line from a Witcher 2 cutscene.

Chapter 1

 It was September, and Autumn had come late to the forests of Angren. Fooled by the long days and the late changing of the leaves, various creatures scurried about in their preparations for the encroaching winter. Squirrels of both woodland and elven varieties had begun to ferret away supplies; the former stashing nuts in the dirt and the hollows of trees ,  while the latter were stripping what poor fare the forest and the dead had to offer with gaunt hands and thin resolve. Birds had begun to seek out their winter homes; and in a spacious cave close to the central river, very recently and abruptly vacated, an Arachas had begun its preparations for the coming of the snow and a long sleep.

As often happens, the peace of small things was disrupted by something out of place.

Here, disruption took the form of a young man sporting distinctive, mismatched clothes and stumbling through the trees with an uneven tread. His eyes were wild and his unusual features were gaunt. He carried nothing save the sword on his back, the silver growing heavier with each step and each ragged breath he took.

Too far yet altogether too close behind him, a large detachment of peasants-turned-guardsmen trampled through the thick, tangled undergrowth. Their armour, ill-fitting and splotched with rust was completely unsuited to the both the terrain and the pace of their endeavour. Corpulent and breathing heavily, barely a notch above useless without their horses. It was only by the grace of the young man's injuries that they gained.

Somewhere to the rear of the pursuit, a colossus led his horse by the reins. Unhurried and unnervingly focused, he barely disturbed the Autumn leaves as he passed, carrying death with him.

Brown curls plastered to his head with sweat, the soldier’s quarry stumbled once, twice before he finally collapsed with exhaustion beside a mossy log. The odd medallion he clutched bounced on its chain, the metal cord pressed deep into the flesh of his palm.

The rotting log partially covered a small depression in the ground, and he pushed himself into the crevice as deep as he could. Wood splintered into his hair and under the torn collar of his shirt as he tried to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

Silence filled the space around him, taut and expectant, broken only by his laboured breaths and the thud of his heartbeat in his ears.

His first warning was a heavy  _thwack_ as an arrow dug deep in the soft, rotted wood above him, perilously close to his head. He had only time to glance bleakly at it before it was joined by another, this time sticking out of the undergrowth a foot or so away. The white fletching confirmed that the Baron's men had indeed not given up the chase-- not even after they'd abandoned their horses when the bramble grew too thick and too wild, or when they'd lost a man to ill footing at the cliffs, to join another two left behind at a chance meeting with an equally surprised group of Nekkers.

They knew the price of failure, and so did the man cowering on the ground. 

Following the second arrow came the unmistakable sound of laughter and the arrhythmic tread of boots.

Arrows from close by had replaced warnings shouted at a distance, and the young man knew that he couldn't keep running and hope that misfortune would end the chase for him.

He focused his amber, cat-like eyes to the river ahead, and made a decision.

With almost inhuman quickness he pulled himself up from the ground and immediately came crashing down again as his leg gave out from under him. Pain spiked up like a poker, white hot though his hip.

"Oi, sweetheart! We just want to have a little chat!" a familiar, oily voice wheezed from somewhere close. There was more laughter as he wrenched himself up with last ditch strength, his voice ripping out of his raw throat as he took each agonising step forward.

He barely noticed as another arrow whistled past, embedding itself in a tree close to his left. Hesitating only for the barest of seconds, he fumbled with the clasp of his sword and winced as it released and thudded behind him. The forest swayed in front of him as he took the last few torturous steps to the river's edge.

His fingers clawed at his throat to again take hold of his silver amulet as he collapsed forward, and let the cold water take him.

                                                                                                                * * *

He woke up choking, his cheek to the muddy earth and the viscous taste of mud and river water in his mouth. Visions of fire abruptly receded from his mind along with the acrid stench of smoke and the sensation of unbearable heat.

Blindly, he lurched his way forward, pulling up fistfuls of mud and stones with fingers stiff and mottled blue from the cold and only when his hands met water did his eyes open.

Coughing wetly, he tried to make out his surroundings through eyes that wouldn't focus. The white swell of the river and the distant line of trees that filled his view came together to form a conflicting, indistinct mass of colours and shapes.  He could hear the river crashing around him from where he lay on his little refuge of earth.

Any measure of relief he might have felt at his unexpected survival was drowned out by a fit of coughing that wracked his whole body, leaving him writhing as he tried to gulp in air with ragged, pained breaths. He rolled onto his side and reached out to try and draw in river water with his hands, gagging when all he got was muddy wash from the bank.

When he was done wretchedly expelling what felt like half the river from his body, along with what meagre fare he'd scraped together throughout the last few days, he rolled onto his back slowly, weakly, and was met with the sight of an open sky. The deep blue of the early afternoon peaked through the canopy, the sun in hiding behind the clouds.

Nothing about the openness seemed familiar to him.

Exhausted, he brought his hand up to his chest, relieved when his fingers found the amulet still hanging from the now twisted chain around his neck.

It was distinctive. Silver in the shape of a Manticore's head, but distorted.

He was glad he could at least die with it.

The same couldn't be said for his sword, he remembered with sudden clarity, bitter disappointment joining the already acrid taste in his mouth. He'd dropped it to give himself a better chance at surviving the river. Now he found himself wishing he hadn't.

Another old connection gone, lost to the forest or the Baron's men. Another piece of himself.

The young man tried to sit up and found he couldn't. His legs did little more than twitch as he tried to move them and so he let his head fall back to the ground, drained by even the smallest movement.

He was going to die here, he realised.

Around him, a painful silence loomed, deafening even the birds.

His eyes stung, vision blurring, and the warm wetness that tracked down his cheeks was almost a relief on the cold numbness of his face. A sound, thin and painful escaped his lips and he choked on it, throat constricting painfully as his heart pounded in his chest.  

He wasn't ready to die in this strange country, with the people's faces so like and yet unlike his own. The bland food and the worse weather, clouds constant on the horizon, bringing the never-ending threat of rain.

He hated it.

He _ detested_ it.

Back home the unfriendliness and suspicion were hidden behind masks of indifference. Here people stared openly. Spat at him in the streets. Threw rocks, curses, hid their children.

Time was lost somewhere in the haze of the cold afternoon as he lay splayed beneath the indifferent sky. His fingers clutched at his medallion as a child might a favourite old toy, worn with time.

He realised his body felt only vaguely aware of his torn clothes clinging to his skin, and the cold sting of the air as he drew it shallowly into his lungs.

In and out.

In and out.

                                                                                                                * * *

In a flash he opened eyes that he hadn't even realised were closed. Movement preceded wakefulness, and before he could even properly process his surroundings, he was struggling awkwardly to his feet, head swimming with the sudden effort. His leg had other ideas, and instead he ended up on his hands and knees upon the bank.

He may have only been a young Witcher, new to the world and painfully inexperienced, but some senses develop awfully early out of necessity.

Someone was watching him.

Forgoing another attempt to stand, he instead flattened himself as close to the ground as he could. A mixture of nausea and dizziness threatened to overwhelm him as he tried to focus his eyes, forcing them to make sense of the mess of colour around him.

Trees. Water. Trees.

Nothing.

The forest around him looked tranquil and still, and the only sounds to be heard were the insistent calls of the birds and the rushing of the river.

He gave it a few minutes like that, still pressed to the ground, allowing his senses to adjust to his surroundings, and to take stock of his injuries. Not unsurprisingly, he felt like shit. He was beyond cold, and now he was uncomfortably aware of his wet clothes clinging to his thin frame. He tried to bend his fingers, and they twitched a little. He could feel the earth through the holes in his jerkin, a pebble pressing irritatingly against a rib. Gingerly, he tried to bend his knee, receiving a fresh stab of pain for his trouble.

What he needed was a plan, but first, he needed to be able to stand.

Slowly, he tried again. He managed to force his way through the numbness in his extremities and the insistent, throbbing pain in his knee, and after several, awkward attempts he was on his feet. Unsteady, but vertical.

Carefully, he turned around, and his heart dropped into his stomach.

"What the fuck," he mouthed in disbelief.

Standing near the opposite bank was the biggest man he had ever seen.

Even from his little vantage point in the middle of the river there was no mistaking how tremendously big he was. His head was shaved, and his massive arms were bare. An absolute mountain of meat. All the young Witcher could do was stare, awe mixed in with terror. Their eyes met across the river, and even from a distance he felt small.

Briefly, he entertained the thought that the other man might just be a traveler, and that he should call to him for help. He half raised a hand, forcing a smile that died stillborn when his eyes caught the unmistakable glint of sunlight on steel. In addition to the crossed twin blades he had on his front, he noted two on his back. Whatever thoughts he'd entertained about asking for help abruptly vanished.

Personally, he thought anything more than two swords was a tad overkill, but then again, the people here tended to have strange ways. Regardless, there was no way he was sticking around to ask him about it.

The giant shifted, subtly, and the young man immediately stumbled backwards. The world briefly spun out of focus before he met the ground with a wet slap.

The colossus still hadn't moved from his position, standing there like a large, intimidating statue. It could have been a trick of the light, but for a second, he swore he saw the other man's lips quirk up in a grin.

Water crashed all around him as he weighed up his options.

Forward - across the gap and straight into whatever the giant had in store for him.

Or, he could take his chances with the river.

Another glance at the stranger and his choice was sealed.

It was immediately obvious that while it was certainly the better of the two options, it was still, well, shit. There was only around 10ft or so of water separating him from the other bank, but the dull ache in his leg and the lightness in his head were grim reminders that he wouldn't be able to make the jump. Not even on a good day with a running start.

The young Witcher had seen people swimming, once. Barely a month out of training he had finally wandered far enough in his search for his first contract to have found the ocean. He had never seen so much water before. Blue stretched out unending beyond the horizon, and he marveled at its vastness and at how easily the townspeople managed to move through it. It couldn't be that difficult, surely?

He looked back over his shoulder.

The giant had reached the edge of the water, unmoving as if he'd always been there.

He cast the man one last look, and jumped.

Or, tried to.

Instead he tripped, belly flopping into the river and was immediately yanked sideways by the current.

On the opposite riverbank, the stranger stared, dumbfounded, listening as the other man's screams grew fainter as he was carried away downstream. He hadn't thought the little fool would be stupid enough to actually do it. He shook his head, sighing quietly. He'd had a feeling when he accepted this contract from the Baron that it was going to be more trouble than it was worth. There was an odd aversion in the man's mean, beady little eyes as he told his servant to hand over the advance payment with obvious reluctance. Something important wasn't being said. Still, the rare prospect of a full coin purse won out over any misgivings he might have had.

Pushing down his annoyance, he set out at a run, following the river.

His payday was getting away.

                                                                       ***

The Witcher hit the water and instantly regretted all the decisions he'd made that had led him to this moment.

The shock of coldness forced the air from his lungs as the freezing water closed in over his head. Up and down and any sense of place immediately lost all meaning. The world around him spun by in a chaotic, surreal blur as he was tossed about in the churning current, unable to do anything but gasp in air when he could.

He'd never usually recognised any Gods except to curse them, but something out there must have heard the furtive, whispered prayers he'd sometimes make in the dark; just as he was ready to pass out from the lack of oxygen and the shock of cold something impacted his arm as it flailed about in the water and he instinctively reached out to grab it.

He forced his eyes open. Between the hair plastered to his face and his own distorted vision, he could barely make out the gnarled shape of a tree above him, its roots jutting precariously from the eroded soil of the bank. Holding on for dear life, he gripped the roots with numb fingers and pulled himself forward, exhaustion threatening to claim him as he fought the violent pull of the river.

One hand over the other, again and again, tired muscles burning with sheer effort and he was finally free. He managed to crawl a few feet away before collapsing in a heap upon the bank, breath coming in heaving gasps.

He'd made it. He'd beat the river. If he wasn't so monumentally tired, he would have laughed. Whatever was looking out for him obviously wanted to see how this joke would play out. All he wanted to do was lay there, close his eyes and let the moss grow over him.

Instead he forced himself up as his body screamed for rest, the colossus still looming in the back of his mind.

He still had no idea where he was, a bad leg, no direction, no food, no weapons and no plan.

But he did know one thing.

As long as he lived, there was no way he would ever go back in the water.

                                                                  ***

The light filtering through the branches had begun to dim when he arrived at the cave.

For the Witcher, luck tended to have all the predictability of a coin tossed about by an irate toddler. So, it was with a healthy level of suspicion he eyed the darkened entrance towering above him.

It had been home for several weeks after his abrupt departure from the Fortress of Spalla. It was spacious and reasonably comfortable, despite the damp, with plenty of little hidey holes he could disappear into.

He'd seriously considered laying in stores of food there and setting up for the winter early, until an eviction notice in the form of some giant insect burst in one morning to stake it's claim on his little hideout. Barely escaping with his life, and with most of his supplies abandoned in the process, he'd taken to sleeping rough in the forest, barely subsisting but terrified to venture beyond the limits of the trees.

Unless someone had been brave (or stupid) enough to venture into the cave in the last week or so, or unless this was the type of bug that enjoyed collecting tattered clothes, he could at least sure that his gear was still in there. And then there was the boat...

After a few freezing nights spent near the entrance, he dared to venture further into the cave and found he hadn't been the first occupant. On the lower level he'd found a room with some old, splintered rods, and a few rusted bits of fishing wire. Two bedrolls had rotted on the uneven floor, stained with something he hadn't wanted to think on. Of more interest was an old boat perched on the shore, a short distance from the back entrance. Like everything else, it looked older than he was and seemed to be composed mainly of splinters but the hull was, by some miracle, still intact.

His expression soured in distaste at the idea of going back on the water, but he was fast running out of options. If he managed to make it through the cave uneaten it was only a short distance on the rapids until the river evened out into calmer waters, and freedom.

He'd have to be careful, he considered, batting a tangled curl out of his face. If his luck held the giant, shelled monstrosity within was hopefully out for a walk, or sleeping, if not...

Well, it wasn't like he had much of a choice.

                                                                       ***

 

The Witcher had only taken a few steps inside before the little scrap of courage he'd mustered began to fray. He shivered as cold wind whistled in behind him and settled in his bones. All around the insistent trickle of water grew loud in his ears as it made its way to the caverns below. He caught himself glancing back as the light from the entrance grew fainter with every step, and then disappeared entirely. 

He remembered being filled with awe the first time he'd ever set foot in the main chamber. Daylight had streamed softly in through gaps in the high ceiling, softly illuminating the space below. Scattered around carelessly were countless stalagmites; some no taller than his knee, some dwarfing him as he stood next to them. Almost as numerous were the holes dropping through to the lake below, water bathing the walls in ever shifting reflections. It was beautiful and dangerous, and for a brief moment he'd thought of home.

Now, paused in that same spot, sick and exhausted and alone, he knew he was as far from home as he could possibly be.

Around him, the place had lost all the beauty of that first encounter. The colours were muted and dull, and the rock formations he had marvelled at formed ominous shapes in the dying light. The smell of musty dampness and loam filled his nostrils along with...something he couldn't place. Sickly sweet and cloying, he only caught the barest hint before it was carried away, leaving him wondering if he'd imagined it.

Definitely not home.

His head throbbed dully as he tried to focus his hearing, listening for some tell-tale sign that he wasn't alone: scratching, a growl,  something.

Aside from the lonely clatter of a distant rock echoing through the cavern and his own laboured breathing, the space was otherwise silent and still.

Ahead, the darkness between the grainy shafts of light hid dozens of winding passages, and any step too far in the wrong direction could mean a quick, painful shortcut to the cavern below. Not trusting his own footing, he kept his eyes glued to the ground as he inched around the pitfalls dotting the ground like dents on a pockmarked face.

It made navigation frustratingly slow, but he cleared the first chamber without incident and took the leftmost passage. Witcher senses could only compensate for so much. So as the blackness became complete, he gripped the wall with a sweat slicked hand, letting it guide him forward.

The passage had just begun to slope beneath his feet when it hit him again, stopping him dead in his tracks.

A sickly, sweet smell filled the air. Except this time it was tinged with an unmistakable scent, and the Witcher's heart dropped into his stomach as he realised exactly what that something was.

Rotting meat.

He didn't need years of Witcher training to tell him that going forward was a bad idea. Hell, anyone with half a brain could have told him that. Anger bubbled up into his chest, dwarfing every other bit of unpleasantness he felt. He cursed silently into the unresponsive blackness around him, but he knew. There was no way out but forward.

The Witcher attempted to cover his mouth with his tunic, quickly discovering torn cloth ingrained with weeks’ worth of filth was a poor way to filter air. Breathing through his mouth was only marginally better, and it didn't help that the smell only grew worse as he ventured further down.

He tried his utmost to ignore it; to pretend he was a child again, making games out of an intolerable reality. If you don't make a sound you don't exist. Those were the rules, his friend had once whispered to him as they had moved together across the shifting sands. Moonlight had bounced off their glassy eyes as poison seared through their veins, and together they survived that night, protected in their cloak of silence.

Go silently, he had said, and nothing can touch you.

Bayar, his name was. And the next winter he had died screaming.

So that's how he went, measuring his way forward. Ever present in the back of his mind was the thought that he was nothing but a man counting every step on the path to the gallows, anchoring him to this place.

50, 78, 95 -the numbers ticked over into triple digits and without warning, the stone under his hand gave way to open air and he toppled forward. Wrists jarred and his knee slammed into the unyielding rock of the cave floor. He barely caught his cry as it threatened to rip from his throat and make him real again.

Mouth agape, he clawed at the uneven floor, breath coming in silent gasps. The pain rocked through him in waves. His hand grasped blindly in front of him, trying to find the wall or just //anything// he could use to drag himself back up. Instead it met with something cold and clammy and he quickly snatched his hand back. Coating his fingers was something gelatinous and thick, sliding easily between his fingers.

Confused, he brought his hand up to his face, sniffed and was immediately gripped by a cold chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Sickly sweet. Rot.

Oh.

Eyes fixed on the darkness ahead, he began to push himself up. Slowly, agonisingly, muscles straining as he tried to exert a control his exhausted body wasn't capable of. His leg ached and refused to bend, and once upright he teetered precariously like a doll without a stand.

The longer he looked, the more he could see and the more he wished he had never left home.

Ahead of him a shape towered in the near distance, its outline barely perceptible in the abject blackness of the room. He took a halting step back and froze as something crunched under his foot.

A sound reached his ears that had previously gone unnoticed until it hitched, and his throat constricted in fear as the creature shifted. Deep and rhythmic, it grew louder the more he focused on it.

Breathing.

He was in its fucking den.

A voice in the back of his head screamed at him to  move , to  run . Barely daring to breathe, he backed out into the passageway, wide amber eyes fixed on the shape in the darkness.

_ No way out but forward. _

He tried and failed to keep his mind blank as he forced one foot in front of the other. The voice in his head became a wordless babble as the passage sloped downwards under his feet. The longer he looked into the darkness the more his imagination supplied what he couldn't see. Vague shapes loomed, threatening, and a small voice whispered that if he took his hand off the wall he'd become unmoored, lost forever in the endless black.

Eventually, the damp rock under his hand disappeared into a gap and he let out a low, shaky breath, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. 

Cautiously, he slotted himself through the narrow passage, noting that it no longer grazed his chest as he passed.

His bedroll was the first thing he found, his foot catching on it and almost sending him careening headfirst into the wall. Cursing under his breath, he ran his fingers along a rough outcropping of rock, relieved when they met the rough pack that held the remains of his gear. Next, he carefully reached into the blackness beside the rock shelf and -

Nothing.

Disappointment rose in his throat.

It had to be there somewhere. It had to be.

Temper fraying his already shot nerves, he stepped forward and instantly regretted it. His boot impacted with something solid and he froze at the heavy clang of metal as it dropped to the ground.

His heart pounded painfully in his chest as the sound echoed beyond the tiny room.

He dove forward, ignoring the agonising pain in his knee as he groped frantically around him. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he knew he couldn't leave without it.  His hand closed around cold metal and he cried out in shock as it bit deep into his palm. Clutching his injured hand to his chest, the other finding the pommel, he forced himself up and out.

Reality crashed in and any pretense at stealth was thrown out the window as he burst into the passageway. Air burned like acid in his lungs and his pack, hanging from his bloody hand, felt as though it had been filled to the brim with rocks. His knee joint ground like bone on bone.

It was the same old dream - behind him was a nameless monster in the dark and he was just one skinny Witcher, alone. Don't look. Don't make a noise. But his footfalls echoed unevenly around him with the sound of his gasping breaths and the game was up - all the rules had been broken, and now it was coming for him.

Lights flickered in the darkness ahead, and he stumbled towards them like a drunken moth to an incinerator. It didn't matter who they belonged to. He just needed to stop.

He reached the circle of light and almost collapsed into it.

"Come back to get your gear?"

In front of him, the Baron's men stood together like rotted teeth in a jaw.

The one who had spoken took a step forward, and retrieved a set of steel cuffs from  within the confines of his jerkin, stretched  around his hanging gut. Now closer, the Witcher could see his mean, beady little eyes, set too deep in a pockmarked face and he felt a fresh wave of hatred and disgust. The Guard Captain.

The man's cracked lips peeled back in a grin, revealing teeth like yellowed tombstones.

He couldn't make his throat work. The man in front of him shook his head, clucking disapprovingly.

"Stupid little mutt. They all run. They all end up here," he said, voice grating like the turn of a grain mill. "You didn't think that the massive cave in the centre of the woods wasn't the smartest place to hide, now did you?"

Horror dawned as the Witcher became aware of movement in the passageway behind him. He could feel it reverberating through the soles of his feet, heavy and purposeful - something was moving towards them.

In front of him, the Guard Captain continued his smug tirade, blissfully unaware.

"Now then, little Witcher, you're gonna put down that little sword you have nice and slow, aren't you? And then you’re gonna let me put these cuffs on you nice and quiet like, and don't even-"

Before he could finish, his face turned the colour of spoiled milk. His little eyes went wide with horror, fixed on a point over the Witcher's shoulder.

The Witcher turned.

Before their eyes, a monster materialised into existence.

Inch by inch its cloak bled away and when it finished no one moved. No one dared breathe.

On first glance one could almost be forgiven for thinking it was a giant spider. Six legged and massive, it loomed above them. A bulb rested above massive pincers and despite himself he felt vague appreciation. He'd never seen a creature with such lovely colours.

On its back perched a hollowed-out tree trunk, as if it had sought to bring the forest with it wherever it went.

The bulb slowly unfurled as they all stood there, transfixed. Hues of red and coral spread out into the petals of a giant flower.

Pincers spread outwards to reveal a gaping maw, filled with dozens of needle like teeth and dripping venom. A low growl broke the silence, and still none of them moved.

Suddenly, a piercing roar split the air. And finally, it moved. Straight for him.

Without thinking, his fingers curled and twisted into the sign for Igni and flames burst out into the air. He may as well have pissed into the wind - it shrieked but nothing was going to stop its charge.

Time for plan B - he hit the ground and curled into a ball, making himself a smaller target. Sharp legs pierced the ground around him as he covered his head with his arms. Its momentum carried it forward into the wall of men behind him like a wave crashing against the hull of a ship.

Normally, the sound of ten unprepared men making their acquaintance with a very large, very angry insect would have been terrifying. Instead he almost cried with relief as he crawled away amidst the chaos, the sickening cacophony of screams and snapping bones following him into a side chamber.

As a rule, he'd avoided this part of the cave during his stay. The blackness hid a multitude of cracks and holes and the last thing he needed was to break an ankle with the finish line in sight.

Ahead was an unassuming little back entrance, difficult to spot from the outside if you didn't know what you were looking for. All he had to do was look for the light.

Relief flooded through him as the first ray of light touched his face.

He'd made it. He'd actually -

Oh.

There at the exit, silhouetted against the gentle, hazy light of the late afternoon sun, stood Death.

The young Witcher shook his head, mutely. His mind screamed at him to move but in an instant fear had swallowed him and all he could do was stare.

The moment hung there in silence as the shape blocking the exit seemed to consider him. Unwillingly, the young Witcher looked into his face, but his features were obscured by the light behind him. All he could see was the odd, unnerving glint of the stranger's eyes, boring into him.

He flinched as a low, powerful voice cut through the silence, quiet and yet somehow loud as if spoken in his ear.

"You breathe too loud."

Unable to stop himself, he glanced off to the side, to the little opening only he knew about. The stranger followed his gaze and again, he thought he saw a smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"Don't make me chase you."

Sudden anger washed over him as he stood there, pinned by the stranger's gaze.

He had not come this far to fail now.

Clutching at what little courage he had left, he looked up into the giant's face. His legs trembled as he took a tentative step forward, and then another. He raised his hands slowly in what he hoped seemed like a placating gesture. When he found his voice, it was shaky and thin and held none of the surety it had inside his head.

"Fuck. You."

He darted back into the blackness of the cave; injuries forgotten as sheer panic took over.

It wasn't far before he felt his foot catch on something and he slammed into the ground with a cry, the impact forcing the air from his lungs. He pulled himself forward with frenzied movements, expecting at any moment to feel the sting of a knife between his shoulder blades.

It never came.

Instead, where he expected his hand expected to meet stone it met - nothing.

He tossed his pack into the hole and the sword after it, the distinctive clang ringing out as it hit the bottom a few seconds later. The stone grazed his chest painfully as he pulled himself through, the sensation of falling barely registering before he unceremoniously hit the floor and crumpled like a rag doll.

A broken groan escaped his lips. The pain stabbing through him was indescribable and there was no part of his body beyond its reach. Ahead, pale light peeked through a gap.

With sword and pack clutched in one bloody hand, he reached out ahead with the other, fingernails scraping against the stone. Like a wounded animal on its last legs, he dragged his body forward.

                                                                     ***

The sword he'd gone through so much to acquire hung limply from his grasp, rusted tip dragging through the dead leaves behind him. He would have given anything to be able to just drop it.

His universe had narrowed to blinding pain and cold and the pulse of his heartbeat in his ears. Breath rattled as he drew air into his lungs, but nothing was real anymore. The forest swam around him like a mirage, and the earth tilted under his feet as he moved.

Vaguely, he perceived the outline of the boat in the distance, perched serenely on the riverbank.

So close.

Bloody marks stained the trees as he stumbled from one to the next, leaves falling gently around him. One step. Two steps. Three.

There was no warning. Somewhere between breaths the boat disappeared, and he could feel his cheek split before his head slammed into the rough bark of a tree. He turned, vision flickering white as he feebly raised his sword. Just in time, he felt rather than saw the second blow. His arm jarred from wrist to shoulder as his sword flew from his hand and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.

"Goddamn fool." a terrifying, gravelly voice cut in over his frantic, ragged breaths.

His fingers hooked into the undergrowth, pulling up twigs and moss and cool, loose dirt as he weakly lurched forward. A few meters away he could see his sword glinting against the roots of a dead tree, gnarled and white and stark against the darkness of the forest. Too far. Much too far.

He felt a sudden, violent pull at his tattered hood and he knew that it was over. Even behind the black spots gathering in front of his eyes he marveled at how easily he was lifted from the ground, before the back of his head connected with the trunk of a tree with a sickening crack and the spots momentarily turned to blackness.

The world quickly came back into a wavering, indistinct focus but he soon wished that it hadn't. In front of him was a face of stone, carved from ages before and set into a vicious mask. There was no kindness in that face.

"I told you not to make me chase you." the voice sliced through him and he clawed against the thick fingers tightening around his throat and pushed ineffectually against the stranger's broad chest as the world began to fade out, leaving nothing but the terrifying face inches from his.

The last thing Saul of Ulantar saw were the stranger's eyes, narrowed to slits and boring into his. Amber and cat-like, bright in the quickening darkness.

Witcher's eyes.

They'd said he wouldn't last a year alone on the Path.

He'd lasted nine months, and two days.


End file.
